


PAPSRSOD

by argonautic



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: M/M, Post-Slash, past Jeremy Clarkson/James May, references to COVID-19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29919759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argonautic/pseuds/argonautic
Summary: When offered a ride in the soon-to-go Toyota Mirai, Jeremy didn’t hesitate.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson & James May
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	PAPSRSOD

**Author's Note:**

> Blame [this Youtube clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1tNutYL0h2M) in which James May does two relevant things: announces he’s getting rid of his hydrogen-powered car and wears the iconic Pink And Purple Striped Rugby Shirt Of Doom.  
> For the rest, it’s all fiction, as usual.

When offered a ride in the soon-to-go Toyota Mirai – a chance to mock hydrogen-powered cars, James said, or to change your mind about them - Jeremy didn’t hesitate. It could represent a good prompt for one of his columns: in the end, what's tastier than a chance of publicly mocking James and his questionable taste in cars?

On the chosen day, James is unexpectedly on time. Jeremy sees him standing next to a rather anonymous dark sedan. Mask on, objectively slimmed down, hair longer and whiter than Jeremy recalled. Good thing he has put on the pink and purple striped rugby shirt, otherwise Jeremy would hardly recognise that bloke as his mate.

Attempting to appear less impressed than he genuinely is, Jeremy walks straight to the passenger’s side, reaching out for the handle. “So you do finally agree with me, there’s nothing like the smell of petrol in the morning”, he greets James and sits inside the car without waiting for an answer. There’s a sort of code between them, after so many years, and avoiding time-wasting pleasantries is part of it.

James sits at the wheel, unbothered, and replies while buckling up, “To be honest, I do miss it a bit, but don’t call it a victory – I’ll explain.”

“Mind I if take my mask off?”, he then asks, “I get tested almost daily for filming and we can keep the windows open.”

“No problem – I can still supply antibodies to the whole country.”

Masks gone, Jeremy discovers James is also sporting a goatee, as if long hair wasn’t enough. A goatee that Jeremy couldn’t scoff at since he has grown a beard himself too – better, the beard had grown and he stopped caring about shaving it anymore, blaming the pandemic for that.

And then there’s that shirt. Jeremy had last seen James wearing it a long time ago. Pounds ago, if not stones, given the weight James has noticeably lost – _the same weight I’ve found instead,_ Jeremy considers, passing a distract hand over his belly to gauge it.

James has probably noticed the move since he chokes a chuckle before speaking. “So, I thought you might have wanted to have a say about it before I’ll get rid of it”, he explains while merging into traffic, “You can even drive it if you want to, but only after I’ve listed some points I want to discuss with you later.”

“Fair. Go on.”

Sincerely, James’s water-generating toy doesn't look much different from any other car. The only clue to it allegedly being a polar bears saving device is the fact it doesn't sound as good as an Alfa Romeo GTV6 – more or less like any other petrol-fuelled car, granted, only this one doesn’t sound at all. James says he doesn't mind its noiselessness - strangely, given how he is the musical bloke among them, yet expectedly since, again, it's James we’re talking of.

That shirt, instead, is louder than a Lamborghini V12 engine revving inside Jeremy's skull.

Jeremy still can't figure out whether James has deliberately worn that shirt to show off the weight loss or there’s a different reason for it; however, his brain refuses to believe it's a random choice.

_He's not remarking the fact I'm looking at his shirt instead of at his car because he has ostensibly brought me here to show off his car whilst it’s his shirt he wants me to look at._ Twisted, but perfectly James's, Jeremy deems.

Meanwhile, James is most likely explaining how that technological marvel works, abounding in complicate terms and metaphors that will never be as good as Jeremy’s owns, yet all that Jeremy keeps hearing is that shirt, endlessly chattering about track laps, rehearsals, and live shows around the world; about Renault Espaces and Ariel Atoms; about drinks – so many of them – and hangovers. And drunken shenanigans Jeremy have not thought about for a long time. One in particular.

“Are you even listening?”

James’s annoyed tone brings Jeremy back to Earth, but his re-entry is as rushed as messy. “Er… Yes, it’s just…”, he blabbers, unable to recollect a single syllable to grasp to.

Jeremy feels his cheeks flushing up – too bad he’s not used to his beard yet to appreciate its concealing properties. Feeling exposed, he resolves in spitting it all out, the sooner the better.

“That shirt... how long you've been wearing it?”

“Ten years or so, I’d say” James replies distractedly, eyes still on the road. It’s wrong, but mostly it’s careless – unacceptably careless, enough for Jeremy to instinctively rebut, “No way, you had been wearing it in Beijing and it was already old! Wasn’t Beijing right after India? And I’m sure India was in 2011.”

Beijing. The place where the drunken shenanigans had turned into something different. Beds too small and spirits too strong, forced proximity and a sudden need for comfort. Reciprocal understanding, sweaty skin and unexpected tenderness, on both sides. Waking up in the middle of the night, head on a drool-stained pink and purple striped rugby shirt. Waking up again the morning after, on a crumpled pillow this time, sour breath and a pounding headache. A mutual agreement to never mention what had happened, for everybody’s sake. Not denying it, though. Not even complaining about the state of the shirt.

James doesn’t comment and it’s a comment in itself.

“God, the things we’ve done together”, Jeremy tries to save it. Poorly. Sounding as embarrassed as a youngster caught wanking even to his own ears, let alone to James’s pricked up ones.

“The things we wouldn’t have done, if we had lent weight to what you were hinting at”, James finally observes, still focused on driving.

He is not wrong. But agreeing with James comes so unnatural that Jeremy can’t help pointing out, “Well, we could have done different ones – not necessarily worse…”

There’s a red traffic light on their way: James would have all the time to turn towards Jeremy now and express his opinion with all the head-tilting and hair-bobbling he may need to stress his point.

Yet he doesn’t.

“I’m happy like this”, he mutters instead. Head firmly against the headrest, hands in perfect nine and three position. Gaze lost far away – Beijing, Jeremy supposes, if they were accidentally pointing East.

Jeremy has to admit he could say the same - says it for good measure, “Oh, me too”. Then, to avoid thinking about it any longer, he decides to finally show some interest in the car.

“So, where’s the closest fuel station? I’m curious to see how it works.”

“Hendon. We’re heading there”, James finally smiles. Jeremy finds it a tiny bit bittersweet, but it’s a smile anyway.


End file.
